Where Grace Abides (3 page)

He stopped, his gaze level but gentle. “This is a step of such importance, my friend, that you must be absolutely certain you take it for the right reasons.”

“Well, apparently I'll not be taking it all,” Gant muttered. He waited before going on. “But what about you? You're converting so you can marry Susan. Don't try to tell me it's anything else.”

His charge didn't seem to faze Doc. “My desire to marry Susan is what finally gave me the shove I needed, that's true. But it's also what you said—I'm actually a lot like the Amish—at least I
want
to be like them. Being their physician and finally their friend after so many years has enabled me to get to know the people and their way of life well enough to realize that I want what they have. I want the peace, the simplicity, the abandonment to God in all things. I can live their way because I
want
to, not only because of Susan.” He paused. “Is that how it is for you?”

Gant met his gaze for a long, silent moment before looking away. “I don't
know
how it is for me. That's as close to the truth as I can come right now.”

“Well…I confess I wouldn't take you for a quitter. If and when you decide you're looking to make this change for the right reasons, I hope you won't take Bishop Graber's refusal as final. I don't know that you should.”

“Is there something you're not saying?” Gant said, with a sour look.

Doc simply gave a half shrug. “No, I believe I've said enough. If you're in a better mood tonight, stop by for a game.”

“You still allowed checkers, are you?” Gant grumbled.

“Oh, I'll still be beating you at checkers after I make my vows. As far as I know, checkers is approved as wholesome entertainment, even for the Amish.”

With that, Doc said his goodbyes and headed toward the door, leaving Gant to nurture his bad mood by himself.

Thing was, Doc's words had left a mark on him. He'd have to think about what he'd said. Especially the part about not taking him as a “quitter.” He
wasn't.
At least he never had been. Maybe… just maybe…Doc was right, that he shouldn't necessarily consider the bishop's decision as final.

He didn't want to, that much was certain.

For starters, though, he needed to shake this foul mood. Then he'd give Doc's little lecture some more thought.

 
2
 
W
HEN
H
OPE
F
ADES

Be strong, O Heart of mine,
Look toward the light!

A
DELAIDE
A
NNE
P
ROCTER

R
achel shook the last few drops out of the watering can. At the sound of a horse approaching, she turned and shaded her eyes, her hand trembling when she saw who was coming up the road.

Jeremiah.

The evening sun had begun to fade, but there was still enough light to frame his tall, erect form as he turned into the lane leading up to her house. He wore no coat—the day had been typically hot and humid for August—but what her sister, Fannie, called his “captain's cap” was pulled low over his forehead.

Rachel set the watering can on the garden bench but made no move to go and meet him. It had been nearly two weeks since she had last seen him, and even though she knew she shouldn't be seeing him at all—they had no business being together because he was an outsider and she, a widow alone—his absence had hurt and disturbed her.

The sight of him disturbed her even more.

She watched him ease off the horse he'd given the peculiar name of
Flann,
then reach for his cane before tethering the big ginger-red gelding to the fencepost. As he started up the path toward Rachel, his limp was obvious, though it had been several months since he'd been shot.

Doc Sebastian had warned him that he would always be lame but hinted that he might be able to do away with the cane eventually. The sight of his slow progress up the pathway tugged at Rachel's heart. He was so tall, so rugged in appearance and seemingly fit in all ways except for the stiffness and hesitancy of his gait. He still had pain too—she had seen him wince more than once at an awkward movement or unexpected stumble.

No matter how she tried to steel herself against feeling sorry for him—for Jeremiah was a proud man and would brook no pity if he were aware of it—she never failed to ache for what had been done to him.

His eyes locked with hers as he drew closer, his gaze steady but gentle when he reached her.

“Rachel,” he said in the soft way he had of saying her name. Not quite a whisper but almost a sigh.

She couldn't find her voice, so she merely nodded.

For a moment he simply stood looking at her, his gaze as warm as a touch on her face, though his expression was unusually solemn. “We need to talk.”

Instinctively Rachel glanced around.

His mouth tightened. “Surely you can't be faulted for standing outside with me. It's still daylight.”

“I don't think—”

“It's important, Rachel.”

He held her gaze, and Rachel knew with a sudden twist of dread that whatever he meant to tell her would not be anything she wanted to hear.

Surely it would be best to go inside so they wouldn't be seen together. But if anyone saw his horse, they would know who was here. No one else among the People owned such a brightly colored and fierce looking animal, so it was no secret who he belonged to.

“I know you'd rather not be seen with me—”

“It's not that—”

But it was
exactly
that. Jeremiah was forbidden to her. He was an
auslander.
An outsider. There was no acceptable reason for them to be together. Even standing here, in the golden light of evening, she would be risking her reputation, inviting censure or worse by keeping company with a stranger.

But Jeremiah was no stranger. She had cared for him in her home, helped nurse him back to health. He was her friend…No, much more than a friend. He was the man she had grown to love.

A love that could have her shunned, torn apart from her family, her friends, her church.

As if he could see the conflict of her emotions, he made the decision for her. “Let me just take Flann around back,” he said, “and we'll talk inside.”

Of course, anyone facing the rear of her property could still see the horse. Still, she decided it would be best to go inside. “All right,” she said, her voice unsteady. “But you can't stay long.”

There was no missing the irritation that crossed his strong features, but he said nothing, merely turned to go and get the horse.

Inside, the kitchen was already growing dim with the day's waning light, but Rachel made no effort to light the oil lamp, resolved to keep his visit to only a few moments at most.

He doffed his cap upon entering. When Rachel made no indication that he should sit down, he gestured to one of the chairs at the table. “May I?”

She hesitated but finally nodded. It went against everything she'd been taught not to offer him something to eat or at least a cup of coffee, but he seemed no more inclined toward a social visit than she did. To the contrary, she knew him well enough to recognize the drawn expression of his features. It occurred to her again that whatever he had to tell her wasn't going to be pleasant.

He waited until she sat down, then hooked his cane on the back of the chair across from her, and lowered himself to it.

She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. They sat not speaking until the silence became awkward.

“I've missed you, Rachel,” he finally said, watching her, obviously waiting for a reply.

At last Rachel looked at him but said nothing. “How are you keeping, then?”

By now she knew that this was his peculiar way—perhaps an Irish way—of asking how she had been. “I'm…well. And you?”

How foolish they sounded. How formal and stiff and—unfamiliar. Like strangers, they were.

He gave a thin smile and shrugged.

Although Jeremiah usually was one to come right to the point, he seemed to be having a difficult time of it today. “Have you seen Gideon lately? You might want to know that he's a fine worker, a real help to me at the shop.”

“I'm glad,” Rachel said. “He enjoys his work.”

He gave an idle nod, lacing his hands together on top of the table.

Again silence overtook them.

Watching him, Rachel's throat felt as if she'd swallowed dust. “You said you wanted to talk with me.” For some reason she couldn't manage to say his name. Perhaps because for so long she had loved saying it. It made her think of music. Even more it made her feel close to him.

At this moment, however, she sensed it would be foolish, even treacherous, to allow that feeling of closeness.

He looked up from his hands, his mouth bracketed by hard lines, his eyes shadowed. “I should have come sooner, I know.”

Rachel felt his eyes on her, but she was unable to look at him, unwilling to hear what he had to say. Somehow she knew that his words would break her heart.

 
3
 
L
EAVING
R
ACHEL

Withered is the early flower…

G
ERALD
G
RIFFIN

S
he could at least
look
at him.

Clearly she wasn't about to help him through this. He hadn't expected such coldness from her. That she might be piqued with him or even hurt because he'd stayed away for so long—that wouldn't have surprised him. But he hadn't expected this
distance
from her. It was as if she scarcely knew him.

Gant wanted to reach for her, to take her hand, but he sensed that any such move on his part would meet only with rejection. So he swallowed, cleared his throat, and began.

“I met with Bishop Graber.”

Still she kept her eyes averted. One hand rested in her lap, the other on top of the table. When he saw her fingers tremble, Gant's instinct to touch her was renewed.

“Rachel?”

Finally she looked at him. The pain that slipped past the guarded gaze warned him that she knew what he was about to say.

“He won't agree to my conversion.”

Saying nothing, she stared at the table, then gave a small nod.

“He doesn't trust my motives. He thinks the only reason I want to join the church is so you and I can marry.”

Her head came up, her eyes questioning.

“I wasn't able to convince him otherwise.”

Now Gant found himself unable to meet
her
gaze. He knew the question that he would encounter in her eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. As he'd told Doc, he no longer trusted his own conviction. Maybe Rachel
was
his only reason for wanting to convert. He couldn't be sure. But wasn't it enough that he
would
convert, that he would change his entire way of life to marry her? What if that
was
his only reason or, at least, the most important reason? Why couldn't that be enough?

“Then he also told you to stay away from me, didn't he?”

As always her voice was quiet, level, and controlled. But her eyes pierced his so intensely Gant felt as if she were cutting through to his very soul.

Even if he were tempted to lie to her—and he was, just for a moment—what good would it do? She would find out the truth soon enough. Besides, she deserved to hear it from him, not the bishop or someone else.

“Yes. He said we're not to see each other. At least not alone.”

“Like this,” she said quietly.

He made a gesture of frustration with one hand. “I don't accept his decision, Rachel. I can't. There has to be a way.”

Something akin to alarm flared in her eyes. “No, Jeremiah. There
is
no way. There will never be a way.”

“There has to be
something—
”

“There's not,” she said sharply, her chair scraping the floor as she pushed back from the table and stood. “The only thing we can do is exactly what Bishop Graber said. We have to stay away from each other.”

Gant also got to his feet. “You would do that, Rachel? You'd accept his decision without even trying to find a way to change his mind?”

“It's what I
have
to do! The bishop's decision is the last word in such matters. I can't go against him.”

She turned away. Gant knotted his fists at his sides to keep from slamming them on the table. “Can't or
won't
?”

She came around slowly, and now her expression was one of sadness. “They're one and the same, Jeremiah. I can't go against my church. My faith. This is my life. It's all I have.”

“You could have more, Rachel. We could have each other. A life together, children—”

“No.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “No, we can't. Not if it means giving up everything I know, everyone I love.”

He stared at her long and hard. “But you're willing to give
me
up. What about
our
love?”

She blinked, and he thought he saw tears in her eyes. For one insane moment, Gant wanted to grab her and force her to admit that she couldn't face a life without him any more than
he
could her. He wanted to take her away from here, leave Riverhaven, go any place where they could be together.

Madness. The truth was that she
could
live her life without him. She had the support of an entire community and a family deeply devoted to her. If he were to leave, Rachel's life would go on, much the same as it always had.

Oh, she might miss him for a time—but probably not for long. Eventually she would get past whatever pain their parting might cause her and go on. One day she would marry another man and have a full life.

The very thought of that man, whoever he might be, blistered his heart with jealousy.

In this moment all he could see was a vast emptiness spread out in front of him. What kind of a wasteland would his life be without her, now that he had found her and grown to love her so fiercely? How could he just walk away, never see her again, never talk to her again, as if he'd never known her?

He couldn't. He
wouldn't.

“Rachel—”

He took a step toward her, but she raised a hand to stop him. “Don't. I…want you to leave now, Jeremiah. Please.”

He stopped, his eyes locked on her even though she wouldn't look at him. “You can do this, then? You can dismiss me, just like that, simply put me out of your life? Is it really so easy for you, Rachel?”

Slowly she raised her eyes to his, and the look she turned on him stunned Gant into silence.

“Is that what you think? That this is
easy
for me?”

He saw the tremor in her hands as she faced him.

“That's not what I meant—”

She shook her head as if to shake off his words. “When you first said that…you loved me, I told you then it was hopeless, that the only way we could ever be together was if I were to give up being Amish, leave my family, my life. But you wouldn't listen. No, you said we were meant to be together, that somehow we
would
be together, that you would find a way for us to marry—that you would make it happen.”

He nodded. “I know what I said. And I meant it, Rachel. I believed it.”

She dropped her gaze. “And in my foolishness, I believed it too. So when you hinted that you might be willing to become Amish, I suppose I believed that as well.”

“Rachel, I tried, and I'm going to keep on trying—”

Again she shook off his attempted protest. “No. This is my fault, not yours. I surely knew that night when you—when you told me how you felt—I must have known then it couldn't happen. But I let you convince me, or rather, I convinced myself. I let myself imagine that it might be possible after all. That was my mistake—believing it could come about…just because I wanted it. I see now that I was wrong in letting
you
believe it and wrong in allowing
myself
to believe it.”

She stopped. Her gaze searched his eyes. “Don't you see, Jeremiah? Truth be known, Bishop Graber has done us a kindness in
refusing to allow your conversion. He understands that it would be wrong—so very wrong—for you to join us, to become Amish, only to marry me. Sooner or later you'd come to resent me. At the least, you'd resent your decision. To live Amish isn't simply a decision you make. It's a way of life. It
is
your life. It's everything you are, everything you do.”

A sick heaviness settled itself over Gant's chest. She was giving him no room for argument, no opportunity to convince her that this wasn't yet finished, that he meant to fight for her, whatever it took. Yet at the same time, a whisper of uneasiness insinuated itself at the edge of his mind, that his determination to somehow win over the bishop's consent might actually confirm the old man's accusation—that his only reason for wanting to convert was so he could marry Rachel.

The pain in her eyes, the look of dejection clouding her loveliness nearly undid him. “Rachel—give me time. Let's think this through together. Somehow we'll find a way—”

“No, Jeremiah.” In spite of the sadness that seemed to have settled over her, her voice was surprisingly firm. “The bishop's decision is God's will, and we have to accept it. I can't…” She let her thought drift off, unfinished, for a long moment. Then, “I can't deceive myself any longer. I want you to go now, and I'm asking you to not come back.”

Gant clenched his fists at his sides until pain shot up his arms. “The bishop isn't God, Rachel!”

Her eyes widened as if he'd committed blasphemy. “Of course, he's not! But he's our bishop, and I can't go against him.”

Again he accused her. “You mean you
won't
go against him.”

A look of impatience flicked across her features, but her voice held that same maddening calm when she replied. “You don't understand, Jeremiah. I don't expect you to. Unless you're Amish, you
can't
understand.”

Gant knew he was dangerously close to losing his temper. But
at this point he was too afraid that he was losing
Rachel
to be careful
.
“I expect you're right. If being Amish means letting yourself be ordered about as if you have no mind of your own, then I definitely do not understand!”

She reacted to the harshness of his words by passing a hand over her face in a gesture of weariness. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Gant immediately felt a sting of regret. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, yet he was doing just that.

He studied her, waiting. When she said nothing, he expelled a long breath saying, “Do you really want me to go, Rachel?”

She bowed her head and gave a small nod.

Heaviness overwhelmed Gant, as he crushed his cap between his hands. “All right, then. I'll go, but, Rachel—”

She didn't look up.

“If you're determined to give up on us, I can't stop you. But don't you think for a moment that
I'm
giving up.” He stopped, hoping for a word from her. When it didn't come, he added, “If you should change your mind, if you ever want to talk, or if you should need me for any reason—any reason at all—you've only to ask. You know where to find me. I'm not going anywhere.”

He started for the door, then turned back only to find her exactly as she'd been, standing in silence, her gaze locked on the floor.

He left her there, forcing himself not to leave his hope behind as well.